Serving TIme
by oldmule
Summary: Based towards the end of S10. Harry has been extradited to the US following Jim Coaver's death but his life is soon in danger. Separated once more, will Ruth be able to find him? And if she does, can she ever repair the damage?
1. Chapter 1

**From S10, but with some differences! Harry has been extradited to the US. Ruth is still working for Towers. Both lost and serving time.**

* * *

He rubbed his hand across his chin and scratched the beard that was now well established. It was a gesture with no conscious though behind it. Indeed his thoughts, the only free thing remaining to him, were already flying high across an ocean.

He liked to think of her in the house by the sea, though he knew little of it.

He liked to imagine the eclectic, haphazard charm that would have moved in with her.

He liked to see her sitting in the sunshine, happy, reading a book, her fingers fretting at the edge of her skirt.

His own fingers thoughtlessly ran up his face to his eyes and rubbed wearily at them and as they finally fell away the sight of his reality faced him once more.

The bars he was familiar with but the figure on the other side of them was not. There was a cold, hardness in his face, an impassivity that Harry recognised. He knew what it meant ... more questions ... more pain.

Still his thoughts were free and she would help him survive it. Not for the first time.

He considered that at some point his hosts would get bored, or lucky. That he would have served his purpose. They would turn to the next threat and he would be disregarded and forgotten. Left to rot. He probably deserved it.

But at least he hoped she was happy. Alive, happy and valued.

With a life and a home.

* * *

The sunshine was warm, not hot; pleasant, not uncomfortable.

She could hear the sound of distant waves shattering on the shale as she held the book in her hand, the wall of the house behind her back. The hem of her skirt was folded through her fingers, as they wound and picked and restlessly fidgeted, the only movement in her still, tranquil garden.

She didn't turn the page, she hadn't for the last hour.

Though her eyes rested upon it, her thoughts were elsewhere… an ocean away.

She had tried to get word to him, to contact him, even with diplomatic influence and the Home Secretary behind her she had failed. He had disappeared into an abyss of disinformation, lost as agency factions fought to get their hands on him, eager for information, vengeance, payback.

A spirit of Atlanticism there was not.

She missed him.

She had never had so much time to herself, so much time to build a home, so much time just to live.

And yet she would swap it all to spend just five more minutes with him.

* * *

**More to come, if you would like...?**


	2. Chapter 2

**Thanks to _ButlerSwanBurnett_ for giving me some answers to questions re the CIA I hadn't even thought about! Forgive my total lack of research as I'm just making the whole thing up in a rather slapdash fashion!**

* * *

"Tea?"

Margot waited but still no answer was forthcoming.

"Ruth?"

Margot turned away, determining to bring a cup like it or not, Ruth clearly didn't look after herself well enough at the best of times.

There was something strange, distant, even slightly otherworldly about her boss. She shrouded herself in a cloud of privacy but Margot liked her.

She suspected Ruth was lonely. She worked too hard and went home too late but she was brilliant and the Home Secretary clearly thought so … in more ways than one.

When she returned with the two china mugs in hand Ruth had still not moved from the computer.

"Made you one just in case," said Margot, carefully placing down one of the cups having slightly overfilled them.

On the screen she caught a picture of a man she had seen before, a picture she had seen several times on Ruth's terminal, alongside it a search programme was running – a US Security Services search.

"Wanted, is he?"

Ruth glanced up questioningly, looking at Margot.

"Yes," she said eventually, "… he is."

* * *

Harry thudded into the wall of the cell.

For the last 48 hours he had been subjected to 'a chat'. That's what his interrogator called it, though there was little chatting and bugger all social niceties. The bruises around his ribs and face attested to that.

When the same questions were asked time after time; when he had reaffirmed for the umpteenth occasion the details of his former connections with Elena and Ilya Gavrik; when the queries had turned from requests to threats and then violence: he thought of her ... Ruth.

He thought of the brightest blue eyes.

He gave himself and the pain over to her. And the man with the indifferent, cold expression had known that he had lost.

'Chat' over.

* * *

Ruth's tea was cold and untouched.

Margot sighed as she watched Ruth stride hurriedly towards Towers' office.

* * *

The door opened. The Home Secretary was standing by the window studying his growing girth in the reflection of the window.

"Do you ever knock?" he snapped, feeling somewhat embarrassed.

"I've found him," announced Ruth.

Towers did not need to ask who. He knew that she had stayed late every night since Harry had disappeared from Langley. He knew she had searched through every related department in Washington and, god knows how, hacked into Quantico, convinced that he was been held there.

All the expectations he had of Ruth Evershed had been superceded in recent weeks; she was a force; a marvel; a wonder of intelligent, inspirational, intuitive genius. And, he speculated, she was very pleasant to look at.

"He was taken from Quantico six weeks ago by a splinter group from the CIA, charged with covert operations and implicated in the illegal interrogation of political suspects. They're not pursuing the case against Jim Coaver, there's no inquiry, nothing. They're terrorising him. We have to get him back."

* * *

The figure at the door leant casually against the frame. He was tall, dark haired, his mirrored shades were hanging from his top jacket pocket, reminding Harry that there was something other than dim, flickering strobes; or blindingly bright artificial tubes: there was daylight out there somewhere, but not for him.

"So many secrets, Harry. You really should have talked to me. I guess our relationship is not so special after all, but don't worry I know several people who are just dying to chat with you."

"I'll look forward to it," said Harry with a forced smile.

"Or rather you'll be dying to talk to them," he grinned and turned away, "You have a nice day, now."

The door banged closed.

Harry leant his head against the wall. He didn't really care anymore. He didn't care if they pushed it too far, if he drove them too far, if one day after all the abuse and pain he just never came round.

He thought of the beach, of the tears welling in her eyes and the sound of her sobs as he walked away.


	3. Chapter 3

"I can't sanction that."

"Then find someone who can," she said unflinchingly.

Towers glared at her.

"Ruth, do you know what you're asking me?"

"Yes. Do you?" she retorted.

"You want me to authorise British agents to illegally enter a South American country, attack CIA operatives and secure the release of a decommissioned, disgraced MI5 officer."

"No, I'm asking you to do what's right. I'm asking you to do what Harry would do if it were you."

"I wasn't drummed out of the service, I wasn't the one who gave away a national secret, kidnapped a senior member of the CIA."

"And what about the times he saved the country, the numerous times he stopped the chaos and the killings? Are those all forgotten?"

"You're not being rational, Ruth," muttered Towers.

"How many secrets does he know? How many skeletons has he hidden?"

"God knows."

"And yet you're happy to leave him to be interrogated?" she laughed coldly, "Now tell me who's the irrational one?"

The two stood staring at each other, the clock ticking relentlessly in the corner of the room.

"We owe him this," she said quietly.

He sighed deeply and in frustration turned to the window. A bank of dark clouds were gathering to the east and he could almost see the heaviness in the air.

"I'll make some calls," he said finally, watching her reflection. She nodded and then moved to the door.

"Ruth?"

She turned back.

"He doesn't deserve you, you know."

She smiled a soft smile, a smile Towers knew was not for him.

"I'll need a few days off," she said as the door closed behind her.

* * *

"Guatemala!" exclaimed Dimitri.

"What the hell's he doing in Guatemala?" Erin echoed.

"Well, I'm pretty sure he's not lying on the beach," ventured Callum.

Ruth stood before them at the head of the conference table. It was strange and yet exceedingly familiar to be back on the grid, back in this room, but when she looked across the table he was not there and that's what kept her on her feet, uneasy and unsettled.

"CIA blacksite," she said calmly.

"Shit!"

"And he's been there for six weeks."

She watched as their faces tried to belay their sense of horror.

"How do we know he's still alive?" breathed Erin quietly.

"He's alive," said Ruth.

And no one dared to contradict her.

They strode back onto the grid with purpose and determination.

"When do we leave?" Ruth asked.

"We?" repeated Dimitri.

"When?"

Dimitri glanced warily at Erin. She took the lead.

"Ruth," she said, "I'm sorry but this is a job for us, let us do it."

"Erin, don't make me pull rank," countered Ruth. "Now, when do we leave?"


	4. Chapter 4

**Short one for now. Thanks for all the reviews so far.**

* * *

So much for pulling rank, thought Ruth.

She restlessly paced by the transport plane alongside the small, overgrown airfield, enveloped in a blanket of heat despite the hour.

Her neck ached, her head tilted back scanning the skies for the lights of the helicopter.

The team had drawn the line at her involvement in the extraction and reasoned they stood more chance without her than with. Not a great boost to anyone's confidence but her adventures with weaponry had never been the most convincing.

And so she stood and waited.

No coms, no news, no indication whether they would indeed find him dead or alive.

All she had was hope.

Her hands lifted to her hot, sweaty face and yet she felt cold. She could sense the panic rising within her, reaching up from her stomach to her chest, wrapping itself around every nerve, suffocating and strangling, crushing her ribs, squeezing her heart until she feared she would no longer be able to suck in the humid, unsatisfying air around her.

But then she heard it.

The pilot shouted out from behind her but she already knew. The chopper blades humming, distant in the still dark night.

And all that had seemed to take so very long until now, felt but a moment compared to the interminable wait for the helicopter to land.

The air rushing over her from the blades should have been refreshing but she never noticed. She was fixed on the doors willing them to open, willing him to be there.

The lights shone bright behind them, she could see the silhouette of Dimiti jump out and then lean straight back in. Someone was getting out from beside the pilot, a slight figure, it was Erin. A faint glance of Calum in the back, reaching towards Dimitri.

She strained to see, her feet quickening towards them.

Then she saw it.

The limp, hanging, boiler suited body.

Propped between Dimitri and Calum as they ran now towards the plane. Arms draped around their shoulders, feet dragging along the weed infected tarmac, head drooped, face unseen.

The doctor sprinted past Ruth towards the group as Erin ran the other way.

"We've got to go!"

A second helicopter buzzed over the horizon. It's engine preceded only by the sounds of gunfire. They all raced for the transport plane as the blades of the grounded helicopter lifted it into the air once more, ready to trade fire. An airman yanked the door closed behind the last of them as the guns strafed the tarmac. The drone of the plane's engines drowning it out as it began to trundle down the runway.


	5. Chapter 5

**Sorry for the interminably long delay in updating, but here's a bit more to be going along with.**

* * *

Ruth was pushed back onto one of the transporter's benches and strapped down as the plane lurched into the night's sky; the sounds of battle flying around them, bullets ricocheting off the fuselage.

And yet she was unaware of all of it. Unaware of the anxious faces of Erin and Calum opposite her, unaware of Dimitri's bloodied arm pressing against her.

All she saw was the the gurney on the floor, the doctor on his knees bent over, grappling with the cannula, reaching for the drip, calling Calum to grab hold of it as the plane veered desperately sideways.

He leant away into his bag for more drugs, her view finally clear, at last free to see the face she had waited so long to see, the face she knew so well.

But it wasn't his face.

It was a bearded face, a thinner face, a pained, bruised, battered, weak, tired, lifeless face.

Armed now with a fresh syringe, the doctor sat back and tore open the boiler suit and even he hesitated, recoiled by the story of suffering that the chest before him relayed: the burns, the bruises, the incisions.

The cabin was airless, Ruth's head swam, her lungs demanding air.

Dimitri's hand grasped hers hard.

She inhaled, steadied herself and looked back to what was left of Harry Pearce.

The airman told her to stay where she was, but her hand continued to slide her belt loose.

The doctor glanced around but was too busy trying to patch the quilt of injuries to worry about the woman knelt beside him.

A quiet moan and a grimace crossed the beaten, bloodied face, as a small, cool hand gently reached out and stroked the bearded cheek, daring to breathe life into it.

And whatever was between them, whatever unspoken bond united them, it did indeed revive him.

The swollen eyelids falteringly staggered open.

It took a moment for him to focus, to try and understand. There was a roof above him, and noise. Engines. His head hurt, everything hurt. He needed to rest, to sleep.

His head lolled to his left and before his eyelids shuttered closed he caught sight of faces, familiar faces…Erin,…Calum… both smiling at him.

He was hallucinating.

It was the drugs. Or the exhaustion. It didn't really matter which. None of it was real.

A patch of turbulence bounced the plane and with it a stab of pain surged through him. He groaned, eyes flickering open once more.

She was there.

Almost real.

And the pain receded.

"Ruth," he whispered through swollen lips.

Her eyes were filled with tears and he swore that he could feel her hand on his cheek.

If only she were real. If she were real, he could hold on.

His pupils began to dilate, his breathing becoming more laboured.

Ruth sensed the desperate response of the doctor, sensed the fading form before her.

She leaned across him, her hair falling across his face, her lips hovering over his ear, her voice faltering yet determined.

"Don't leave me, Harry … don't you dare leave me."


	6. Chapter 6

**Tiny chapter - apologies but it's all I can manage amongst life and visits to friends! **

* * *

His face was so pale.

So very pale.

If Ruth had tried to move she would have realised that she couldn't feel her legs; as it was trying to move was not something she thought about at all.

She wasn't thinking about the cold hard floor, the metallic ridge gouging into her thigh or the lack of circulation in her feet.

Instead she watched as the blood dripped.

Drop by drop.

Scarlet pearls falling with incessant rhythm; their sound thunderous over the cacophony of the plane's engines.

Drop… by… drop… by… drop.

And with each drop she hoped that life could be injected into him.

"He's lost too much blood" the doctor had said as he fought to begin the transfusion, "as of now it's all about how much he wants to stay with us."

"He will," snarled Ruth, using the anger to stave off her sense of panic, as she faced the transparent figure that lay before her.

"We didn't come all this way, and go to all this bloody trouble for you to give up when we're on the way home. So just get a grip, Harry, or….or …"

She tailed off as the tears of exasperation began to overwhelm her.

Her hands covered her face as she sucked in the air. It was her who needed to get a grip.

"Or what?" came a shattered, tired voice.

Her face broke free from her hands and she gazed at him lying there.

"…Or I'll never speak to you again," she threatened.

He tried to reply but the effort was too much.

But this time as his eyes closed there was the faintest of smiles on his face.

This time he knew she was real.


	7. Chapter 7

"Who would have guessed?" mused Calum.

"Well, clearly not you," Dimitri observed with a smirk as he picked at the dressing on his arm.

"You never mentioned anything, admiral and you're the one who worked with them longest."

"Yeah, well it seemed pretty obvious to me."

"Will you two just shut up," Erin strode past. The two of them looked at each other and followed her out.

* * *

"Thank you…" Ruth took the hand of the doctor with whom she had spent the past ten hours, "…I don't even know your name."

"Captain Fulton," he smiled, "James, to you."

"Thank you, James," she repeated warmly.

They stood in a corridor in the airbase hospital. Behind the door Harry slept.

"Will you be staying with him?" he asked.

She nodded, "If he'll let me. He can be a little … stubborn."

His smile began to slowly fade. "What I did was the easy part."

Her eyebrows raised in contradiction.

"It's not the physical healing that will take the time," he added, "We can only begin to imagine what he's endured. Psychologically is where the damage has really been done, it's hard to know at this point how difficult it is going to be for him to cope with that trauma. Stubborn he may be, but he can't be allowed to rush back to work."

Ruth's smile was tinged with sadness.

"That won't be a problem."

* * *

For two days the patient in room four slept. Slept from exhaustion. Slept with the aide of the drugs. Slept a deep, dreamless sleep.

And when he awoke, there sat Ruth.

"Hi," she smiled.

"Hi" he rasped dryly.

His left hand moved a little, but no further, his eyes sleepily seeking it out, discovering it tethered to too many tubes to move. With a pained expression his right hand travelled slowly to his forehead and eyes rubbing gently, grimacing once more as he caught the bruises. It slipped across his cheek, skimming across the scars, finally down to his jaw, rediscovering the beard he found there.

"I presume I'm not looking my best?" he asked weakly, his voice still unwilling to work.

"Not quite as dapper as usual," she said seriously, though her eyes were filled with affection.

His eyebrows raised in response to the 'dapper', but all he managed was a moan.

"What?" she asked quickly.

"Remind me not to move anything."

She smiled and they sat quietly. Neither said what was in their minds. Neither told the other of their feelings.

And so it was as though nothing had changed.

But it had.

"How do you feel?"

"Probably like I look."

"That bad?" she smiled.

His lip curled briefly in response, until it hurt too much.

"Where are the team?" he asked.

"They had to go."

"Anyone hurt?"

"Dimitri had a scratch, nothing too bad. It's you we were worried about," she hesitated, "Harry, if you want to talk about it…?"

He shook his head firmly, his face a mask.

She knew this wasn't going to be easy.

"I need to get back to work," he said.

"Oh no you don't, you've got a lot of recovering to do." She had decided not to break the news to him. For the moment he had enough to deal with.

"Ruth, I'm fine," he insisted.

"Move your eyebrows," she said firmly.

He looked at her and frowned.

"Ow," he murmured.

"There you go, point proven," she looked slightly smug.

"Fine, then at least I'm going home."

"You're not doing that either."

"Ruth, listen I..." he began animatedly.

"Don't argue. You need dressings changing and someone with you. You're coming with me."

He gazed at her.

"With you?"

"Yes, the house I mentioned to you. I bought it. It's near the coast and the sea air will do you good. Like I say, no arguments."

"Fine," he said.

And actually, it was.

* * *

**More to come, though the psychological implications start to kick in.**


	8. Chapter 8

The sun was warm, but not hot. The air crisp and fresh whilst the sound of the sea broke distantly across the shale.

The small leather bag of belongings, which had been collected along the way, was taken out of the car boot. The passenger door was opened and Ruth leant in to assist a pained looking Harry.

"I can manage" he insisted, not for the first time.

"You may be able to manage, but I'd like to help," she replied patiently.

He wasn't going to be an easy patient.

She slowly led the way through the white gate and down the path towards the weathered green door.

"Your paint's peeling," he observed, leaning against the wall, feeling worse than he wanted to admit.

"I know. I like it like that."

He smiled a little. How very Ruth.

"What?" she demanded.

"Nothing."

"Are you alright? You need to sit down." She hurriedly began to unlock the door.

"I've been sat down for the whole journey."

"You don't look right, Harry."

"That's an understatement. I look a bloody mess."

She stood to one side, ushering him in.

He walked painfully down the narrow corridor emerging into the kitchen, where he was faced with a wall of windows.

"This is the kitchen," she said obviously, "and through here…" she walked next door, "..is the dining room. There's lots of light and it's really lovely in the mornings."

He didn't follow but leant against the counter taking it all in, surveying the garden outside, seeing the reality of what he had spent so long imagining.

Her head stuck back around the door.

"What do you think?" she asked nervously.

"It's very you," he smiled.

"Oh," she mused, "but do you like it?"

It mattered to her, his next answer, it mattered a great deal.

"Yes, Ruth, I do."

This was part of the new life she had made for herself.

He wondered if he was still a part of that life or simply an unwanted intruder.

"Go sit down and I'll bring you a tea," she instructed, "the lounge is through there. I've not been here that long so you'll have to forgive some of the mess and the bits that I haven't got round to yet."

"You don't need to go to any trouble, really. I could have managed..."

"Harry," she snapped.

"I'll go sit down" he muttered, suitably chastised.

She watched him slowly disappear into the lounge, then put the kettle on.

When she followed him a few minutes later, mug in hand, he had nodded off on the sofa. She gazed at him indulgently for a moment; Harry sat on her sofa, in her house the one she had seen the first time and thought of him. She put the drink down and went to make them some food.

When the pasta was made she returned to the living room. She didn't really want to disturb him but he needed to eat and take the medication he had been given.

"Harry," she said quietly but there was no response.

"Harry…" her hand reached out to his shoulder gently touching it, "it's time for dinner." She shook him softly.

Within a second he lashed out, his hand whipping viscously across her wrist as he pushed himself away down the sofa, his breathing heavy, his eyes wide.

She stood back apprehensively, afraid of the wild look on his face.

His chest pumped, his arms still held up protectively.

They looked on, both seeing the other differently, both wary.

As his breathing slowed a little he looked away, "I'm sorry."

"It's okay."

Her left hand reached for her wrist, rubbing it absent mindedly.

"Did I hurt you?"

She shook her head, "dinner's ready, if you'd like some?"

"Thank you," he murmured guiltily, trying but failing to get up from the sofa.

She held out her hand.

He took it gently and she helped ease him to his feet.

"I hope you're hungry, I think I've made too much."

"Ruth…" he paused, still holding her hand awkwardly, "…thank you."

"You haven't eaten it yet."

He let her make light of it. He smiled and reluctantly let go.


	9. Chapter 9

**For me this is a ridiculously long chapter - hope it works. Apologies for any medical inconsistencies, I have no idea!**

* * *

_It was three o' clock when she heard the first scream._

They had had a quiet, slightly uncomfortable dinner. With the night had come the awkwardness of being together under the same roof, the awkwardness of knowing they would soon be talking beds and bathrooms.

He wondering if she was regretting asking him here, her wondering if she was sufficiently capable of helping him.

At moments as they ate he had seemed to drift away, at others anxious to know all about her new life.

Not once did he ever want to talk about himself.

"So, you must have met a few people down here?" he asked casually.

What he meant was 'have you met anyone special down here'?'

She knew what he meant but she left her answer vague. Better that it was that thought which occupied his mind, than the terrors she knew were there somewhere beneath the surface.

_At five past three, she heard the second scream. She got up and hurried toward his room._

When it had come to their inevitable bedtime around ten thirty, she had tried to be as casual as possible. She had walked slowly up the stairs with him, shown him the smaller of the two rooms and hoped he would be okay, here in this room which she had always pictured as his office, his space in their lives, the lives they had never had. Not that she told him that.

Fortunately sense and practicality had encouraged her to buy a sofa bed and it was that that she had prepared for him with fresh, crisp sheets and a light, feather duvet that she hoped would not be too heavy on his wounds.

"It's a lovely room," he ventured, trying to smile, though the stairs had exhausted him.

She had offered, in halting Ruth like terms, to help him undress, but he had politely declined.

And so they had both gone to bed.

She lay in her room thinking of the wall between them. He lay in his and after weeks of bright lights, strobe lights, incessant light burning his retinas, he found himself, like a child, unable to sleep in the dark.

The sidelight remained on to stop the demons in the shadows.

The third scream came as she opened the door. It was no longer a distinctive cry but had morphed into a terrified and terrifying cry of pain and fear. His arms thrashed against the unseen tormentor, his breathing ragged as the nightmare gripped him hard.

She strode to him and with no thought of what had happened earlier perched on the edge of the bed, catching a flailing arm before it struck her. He moaned, somewhere between a cry and a sob, as he shook, his face contorted. She pinned his other arm behind him as he struggled, both her arms wrapped around him now, to protect both of them as she whispered calming, gentle words in his ear.

She breathed with him, slowing their rhythm gradually until he quietened, the struggle dying within him as her assurances washed over him and the demons receded.

Eventually she felt his weight heavy in her arms as he sank back into an untroubled sleep. Laying him back against the pillows she stroked his face delicately and brushed back a long damp strand of hair before straightening the duvet around him.

And then she turned back to her own room.

* * *

The following morning she sat at the table, sipping her tea, her head buried in a book. She didn't see the figure emerge from the kitchen and hesitate slightly as he thought how beautiful she looked, illuminated by the sun flowing through the windows. She glanced up.

"Oh, hi," she said, thrown slightly by the sight of Harry in a dressing gown.

"I'm feeling a little underdressed," he said, picking up on her thoughts, as was often their way.

"It's not a fashion show, Harry," she smiled, "besides there's no point you getting dressed until we've changed your dressings."

"Don't worry, I can manage," he said, sitting down across the table.

"If you say you can manage one more time, I swear…" she got up angrily.

"I'm not used to feeling dependant, Ruth."

She whipped around to face him.

"I'm not doing this from duty, Harry, I'm doing this because I want to, because I –"

She stopped herself.

He wished she hadn't.

"Would you like some tea?" she continued instead, on safer ground.

"Coffee, please."

She nodded and went into the kitchen. He gazed out of the window at the slightly wild garden and felt the sun through the glass warming his face.

"The bed was very comfortable," he called through to her after the sound of the kettle boiling had died away.

She reappeared with a pot of coffee.

"And how did you sleep?" she asked.

"Fine."

She was watching him as she poured, unable to tell if he knew it to be a lie. or whether he was oblivious of his nightmares. She settled for oblivious.

He knew she was studying him. It was their business to watch people for a living and they watched each other more than most, but that was for pleasure.

"Did something happen?" he asked.

She sat down.

"You had a nightmare."

He nodded. He couldn't remember it but he knew from past experiences that it was not uncommon.

"I'm sorry I disturbed you," he gazed out of the window again.

"Harry, when you want to talk, I'm here," she ventured.

"That smells like good coffee," he ignored, picking up the cup, "thought you were more a tea person, Ruth."

"I'm a lot of things," she said enigmatically, "Now, what would you like for breakfast?"

* * *

They both stood in the bathroom. He still in his dressing gown. Her with a bundle of dressings the nurses had given them for the worst of his wounds.

Over her shoulder he could see himself in the mirror, the bruises were less tender but looked darker and therefore worse. His hair was, for him, unkempt and rather wild and the beard helped hide the rest.

Ruth pulled on the bathroom light, it was a fluorescent strip she hadn't yet got around to changing. It flickered and flashed slightly.

Harry looked up and backed away quickly until his back met the washbasin.

She caught his look and the fear that flashed through his eyes. The light settled and stilled.

"Okay?" she asked.

He nodded as he forced himself to relax, letting the surge of adrenalin subside.

"You need a barber, Harry Pearce," she said, trying to distract him.

He looked back to the mirror.

"It's not a look that usually goes with a Saville row suit," she teased.

"I thought women liked wild and rugged?" his eyes had found hers and wouldn't let go.

She raised her eyebrows, "that's what men say when they can't be bothered to shave."

He smiled and rubbed at the beard and then pushed at the curls at his neck.

"Is there somewhere I could go near here?"

"Yes, I'll drive you later, if you feel up to it."

He nodded.

"Right," said Ruth looking at the bandages and then his dressing gown, "you'd better take that off."

At any other time he would have felt quite happy to have thrown it off in front of her but right now he was baring more than he would have liked, he was baring the admission of his capture, revealing to her the history of his interrogation and most of all his inability to stop it.

He draped the gown over the edge of the bath, his eyes cast down, his back to her.

There was a patch of cotton gauze, under his right shoulder blade, half way down his back. The tape securing it easily peeled away under her nervous hands. She caught her breath when she saw the round mark, more brand than burn that had seared his skin. As delicately as she could she smeared the anti bacterial gel across it, feeling him flinch.

"I'm sorry."

"It's fine."

She covered it and patted down fresh tape before crossing around in front of him and gazing at the mess that was his chest. One by one she treated and dressed the various burns and cuts, negotiating around the now blackened bruises.

Her eyes never lifted to his face but she knew he was watching her the whole time as her soft fingers worked as lightly as possible. When she had finished she packed up the spare bandages as he reached for the dressing gown and slipped in on.

Finally she dared to look up.

"Thank you," he breathed quietly and turned away from the room.

She closed the bathroom cabinet, staring at herself in the mirror.

And then she brushed away the tears.


	10. Chapter 10

**Don't know if this is a little too similar to the last chapter but see what you think?**

* * *

"Oh," she said, surprised.

"Not handsome enough?" he asked, tongue firmly in cheek.

"No, it's just …" she muttered, pointing at the beard.

He rubbed his chin, "Not quite ready to get rid of it yet," he admitted, "not sure why."

She wanted to suggest that he was hiding; hiding from himrself, from her, from the memory of those that had done all this to him. She chose to smile instead.

"Well, it's very fetching. And a bit more …"

"Me?"

"Yes, Harry, definitely more you."

He brushed his hand through his close cut hair, considering himself a little more human.

"Do you feel up to some more fresh air?" she asked.

"That would be good," he smiled.

And so she took him to the sea.

The shale that they could hear from her house being pounded every day was in front of them now. It was a somewhat sublime sea and for once a somewhat hushed sound.

He sucked in the deepest of breaths, lungs filled with salt and seaweed.

"Better?" she asked.

"Considerably," he nodded.

They looked out over the gentle waves.

"I used to come here and think of you somewhere across the sea," she admitted nervously.

He looked hard at her.

His first response was to tell her that it was the very same thought that had helped him survive, but his second was to recall all he had endured and thus his face clouded and he said something else.

"I presume Gavrik and Elena left after signing the deal?"

His face was not the only one to cloud over.

"It became a little complicated," was all she ventured.

"In what way? He didn't find out about her?"

"I'll tell you later."

"No, tell me now, Ruth."

"Please, Harry," she snapped, "for once can this not be about _her_."

He stared in surprise, nodded somewhat reluctantly and gazed back out to sea.

"We should go before you get cold," she muttered and walked away.

He didn't feel cold.

* * *

On returning home she went straight to the kitchen.

"Tea?"

"Please."

She stood filling the kettle.

He moved towards her. She had spoken only a few words to him during the short journey back. He picked up two clean mugs.

"Ruth…?"

She clicked the ignition on the cooker and the gas 'woofed' on.

The cups hit the kitchen slate floor in an explosion of crockery.

Harry was staring at the gas ring. His jaw set. The sweat rising on his brow.

She quickly turned it off and risked taking his hand.

He did not move.

"Harry…"

She waited until his eyes dragged themselves away from where the flame had briefly burnt to find her.

"The sun's come out, why don't you go out and sit in the garden. I'll bring our tea out there?"

He looked uncertain, glancing down at this feet and the shards of china that surrounded them.

"I'll clear that up, don't worry. Go on," her hand ran up his arm and squeezed his elbow as she nodded towards the windows.

"Sorry," he muttered and stepped away.

She didn't know whether to scream for him, or cry for him, instead she swept up the broken pieces, made sure he was nowhere near her as she lit the ring once more and made them a cup of tea.

She could see his shoulders hunched over in the garden chair as she approached. She was about to speak when she noticed the strange rise and fall of his back. Slowly and quietly she approached, putting the cups down before she reached him. She could hear his breathing; the shallow breaths bringing him no oxygen. She could see his tense white knuckles clenched over his face, his nails digging into his forehead which was covered with sweat.

She made no sound, but pulled up a chair to face him, she dragged it close and sat only a few centimeters from him and waited.

He knew she was there, he could feel her; feel the calming, reassuring, practical presence which tried to pierce the panic.

"It'll go away," he gasped.

She sat still until his breath had almost returned to normal, until he wiped his sleeve across his brow and released a deep lungful of air.

"I need to go back to work, Ruth," he pleaded, "to get past this. I need to keep busy…not think."

She nodded slowly, hoping for inspiration, finding only deflection.

"Let me see what the doctor says tomorrow," she said.

He looked at her softly.

"In the meantime you can make dinner. That should keep you busy."

* * *

That night the nightmare came at 3.15.

She wrapped her arms around him as she had before. She whispered the same words and she breathed with him. She stroked the still bearded face, pulled up the duvet and then she turned for the door.

"Stay with me," came a frightened voice.

She glanced back.

"Please, Ruth."

She crossed back to the bed and climbed under the covers. They lay side by side until she heard peace return to him and then she too fell asleep.


	11. Chapter 11

**Encouraged by very kind reviews I have endeavoured one more chapter this evening. **

* * *

When Harry woke he was alone.

He lay in the bed trying desperately hard to recall what was dream and what was reality; though for so many years his reality of her was only made of dreams.

He turned over with a sigh and when he inhaled he could smell her scent in the bed; too subtle for perfume, too delicate for deodorant; some kind of face cream, hair product, something she used that he would always associate with her. There it was on the pillow next to him.

Perhaps it was his dream after all.

He climbed out of bed and wondered towards the bathroom. She was coming up the stairs.

"Morning," she smiled that smile at him, "Dressings?"

He nodded and followed her into the bathroom, dropping his dressing gown onto the bath.

Twice a day they had to go through this routine and even though the only wound Harry could not reach was that on his back, Ruth continued to treat them all.

The awkwardness was becoming less marked, yet the silence remained as she ministered to him with such reverence and with such tenderness, that he wondered if she had actually done what was needed.

Neither mentioned the night before.

He thanked her and she left him to get dressed with the now customary, "Tea?"

She knew he wanted coffee but for some reason she always said tea.

It made him smile.

* * *

"I called the doctor," she said, preparing him a piece of toast.

He looked at her hopefully.

She layered on more butter, disliking herself for the lie she had just told and the road she was about to embark upon.

"He thinks it's far too soon for you to go anywhere."

Harry's face was filled with frustration and worry. More than anything he feared a repeat of yesterday; he needed distraction.

He opened his mouth to protest.

"Hold your horses, I haven't finished" she said, thrusting the toast at him, "Eat this."

She waited until he reluctantly did as he was told.

"But he has agreed that you can go through some paperwork at home."

She saw the light in his eyes, his mouth being too full to answer.

"I presume that'll help?" she asked.

He nodded, chewing as quickly as he could.

"You said 'at home'?" he managed eventually.

"Well, here," she clarified, "you still shouldn't be on your own. If that's alright?"

"Yes, Ruth, working at home is fine. Thank you."

He smiled and poured some more coffee.

She mused on how 'right' he looked, sat here at her table, in her kitchen, in her house. He fitted like she had always imagined he would.

For now here he would stay. All she had to do was arrange the rest of the lie and hope that by the time she told him the truth he would be well enough, recovered enough to hear it.

* * *

Satisfied by the morning's news, he had a good day.

She made sure of it.

She dragged him out into the garden, giving him a series of light jobs to do, as she told him the tale of Persephone and the pomegranate seeds and regaled him with a raft of other plant related mythologies, she thought were all most marvellous.

When the weather turned she somehow persuaded him to help her bake, which he did with an aptitude she didn't expect. After a couple of hours they were covered in flour and had eaten far too much.

What was left of the day was filled with debate about what colour paint would best suit the lounge and if there was room for another bookcase anywhere in the house. There wasn't.

The moment she saw him drifting away she pulled him back with enthusiasm and care.

By the end of the day he was exhausted. Recuperation had never been so busy.

As he pulled back the duvet she appeared at his door.

"My bed's bigger."

He looked up, puzzled.

"I'll probably only just end up in here, anyway. And maybe in there you might not have any nightmare's at all."

He lay back the duvet.

Said nothing.

And followed her.


	12. Chapter 12

**Okay another ridiculously long chapter by my standards and also something of an in between chapter, part filler, part exposition. Don't know if you'll like it but it is all heading somewhere eventually!**

* * *

He climbed carefully into the bed and reached to turn off the small sidelight. He had paid no attention to the room, it was hers and she was in it and now he was about to share it.

"If you want to leave it on that's fine," she said from the darkness.

But he had not thought of the demons in the shadows. His only thought was that as his eyes got used to the night for the first time in many weeks, a shaft of moonlight had slipped through the curtains and was enough for him to see her by.

"It's fine."

She smiled.

Lying there on her back she knew he was watching; could feel his breath on her cheek; wanted to reach out and touch him; ask him to reach out and touch her.

But she didn't.

It wasn't the right time.

And so he watched her until he fell asleep.

It was the first night without nightmares.

* * *

She was up long before him.

When he woke she removed his dressings and pronounced them ready to be left uncovered and chose him the softest most gentle of his shirts. They had breakfast and she cleared the table while he wondered into the garden to check the shrub she had replanted the day before.

It was cold and he thrust his hands into his pockets, squatting down to inspect the plant.

Within seconds he had slumped to the floor. Debilitated.

It was the noise; the shrill, incessant, pain bringing noise. It was close by, he couldn't pinpoint where, but he knew it was coming for him.

His hands rose to his head, cradling it, as the rest of him curled protectively, instinctively, into a foetal position; seeking safety but knowing there would be none.

Ruth saw him as she crossed the kitchen. She ran out. The sound of next door's drill drifting over the fence.

"Harry," she crouched down beside him. He was shaking.

She reached out for his arm but he beat her away.

"No!" he screamed.

She leant her face close to his.

"It's the neighbours, they're just rebuilding their porch. It's okay, Harry."

It wasn't okay to him. That sound. It meant agonies she could only imagine, things he could never tell her.

She stood up and quickly moved through the gate at the bottom of the garden. Within a few moments the drilling stopped. She returned. He was still sat on the grass.

Putting her hands gently on his shoulders she encouraged him up and into the house.

Where she made him a cup of sweet tea.

Once recovered somewhat, she placed a locked case on the table.

She had his attention.

"It's doesn't cover all your usual responsibilities but it does relate to the top security risks and your assessments of them. It was sent down this morning. It'll be collected at five."

He glanced at the clock.

"But you've only got until lunch, after that I think we need some exercise. Deal?"

His eyes sparkled at her, "Deal."

For the rest of the morning he sat studying the security files before him. Ruth was on the opposite side of the table working on her laptop.

What Harry didn't know was that they were both working on the same thing.

His case had never been near the grid, it had come directly from the Home Office, requested by her.

She had told Towers that she needed to remain on leave but that she could do some work from home. She arranged that everything be available to her, both as a paper copy and electronically, should her signal, or technology fail her.

As Harry had slept, she had received the secure case by courier and then sorted through it to make sure there was nothing he could identify as being specifically Home Office.

They sat and they both assessed the current security threats. It was her job. But it was no longer his.

Later that night she would give his hard copy back to the courier, marked to be destroyed, hers would be received electronically. No one would know that the former Head of Section D had seen the papers, and sadly no one would ever read his recommendations.

But he was happy and busy and for her that was all that mattered, the rest she would deal with later.

* * *

"Okay, where to?"

"The pub?" he said innocently.

"We're meant to be going for a walk, Harry."

"Then let's walk to the pub."

She frowned at him, "You're on medication."

"I haven't had a drink in weeks. Give a man a chance, Ruth."

She gave him a small shake of the head, but her eyes were smiling, "What, to show who he really is?"

His look changed from amused to intense.

"You know who I am. You've seen it all" he looked away, somewhat ashamed, "all the worst parts."

She touched his arm lightly, "then show me some of the good ones."

With a smile she walked on, calling back, "the first round's on you."

* * *

They sat by the fire of the pub, grateful it was lit. She had been wary that the flame may upset him but he seemed fine and declared it homely and rather comforting.

"Do you remember the big trip?" she asked hesitantly.

Seemingly he didn't as he looked quizzically at her.

Paris, Rome...the grand tour?

"Oh, yes, of course," he beamed.

"Did you ever go?"

He shook his head, eyes alight in the flames "Never had the right companion."

"Perhaps you're too fussy"

"Perhaps I am. That, or stubborn."

She smiled playfully, "that _and_ stubborn."

"Touché," he said, before glancing away and letting a moment pass.

"Ruth, I need to ask you something but I don't want you to get upset."

"Upset?"

"Well, angry."

She gave him her best beneficent smile as though to prove the point.

"What happened with the Gavriks?"

The smile faded.

"I know you're keeping something from me, Ruth."

She took a deep breath, piece by piece he would need to know the truth sometime.

"They didn't sign the treaty, it became …complicated."

He raised his eyebrows and waited.

"I'm sorry Harry but Elena was not what you thought she was. She was recruited by a Soviet splinter group before you recruited her. She was part of a plot to persuade us we were under threat from a passenger jet, the aim being for us to destroy it along with it the accord and all further relations with Russia."

His eyes, startled and wide, had drifted to the fire, trying to take in the news.

"She admitted it all. Gavrik didn't know," she added.

"The plane?"

"Landed safely."

He nodded and looked back to her.

"It was you? You who discovered it, Ruth?"

It was her turn to nod.

And to decide to tell him the rest.

"She's dead, Harry. She took her own life when the plot failed. And Sasha… he's not your son. She lied. It was all lies."

She waited for a reaction but there was none until his hand covered his face.

"I thought I could read people," he whispered, "I can't even read myself. I thought it was all guilt, but it's not. I liked him Ruth. Part of me wanted another chance, a chance to have a son," he laughed bitterly, "How ridiculous am I?"

She took his other hand.

"You're many things Harry, ridiculous isn't one of them. You did nothing wrong. You have nothing to feel guilty about, not about Sasha… and not about Graham."

His hand slipped away and he looked at her as though anew.

"Why are you with me, Ruth?"

She gazed at him and smiled, "because I want to be."

And that was all he was getting.

In fact, that was all he needed.


	13. Chapter 13

**Okay, think it's about time to start wrapping this one up. This and pos one or two chapters more.**

* * *

Four days followed.

Four days of files and walks. Four days of domesticity.

Four nights of peaceful, restful sleep.

And on the fifth it all went horribly wrong.

She called out for him and he did not answer. She looked for him but he wasn't there.

The house was empty.

She worried. She felt alone. She missed him.

She got in the car and went looking.

He wasn't on the hills, nor in the village. He wasn't in the pub.

Where he was, was on the beach. Stood by the sea. Looking out. Silent and still.

She walked slowly up to him and stood at his shoulder.

"I spoke to Erin," he said still gazing at the ocean. "asked her about one of the reports I'd read. Apparently I don't work there anymore."

Ruth took a deep breath.

"Why, Ruth?"

"You needed to be busy."

"After all that. All that I ….all that they..." He tailed off, unwilling and unable to tell her of what he had endured.

"It was wrong to make the decision in your absence, without a defense. I tried, but I couldn't change it. Even Towers couldn't change it."

"What am I going to do?" he stared at the sea, "there's nothing left."

She sighed, feeling as though all she had done for him counted for nothing.

Angry. Upset.

She tried to get beyond it. But she could not.

"What you could try and do, Harry, is live."

She turned and walked away.

Leaving him.

* * *

For the first time in several days she ate alone. She spent the evening alone. When she walked up the stairs, it was alone. She climbed into the bed alone.

She was surprised how quickly she had accepted him, how little time it had taken for them to be at ease, one with the other.

And how quickly he was gone.

She lay in the dark, on her side of the bed, the one she had never moved from. It felt cold.

There was a sound from downstairs.

She held her breath.

Footsteps on the stairs.

The click of the bathroom light.

She lay, and hoped. Hoped to hear the loose floorboard in the spare room. Even hoped to hear his nightmare driven screams. Anything.

She heard her door open, she saw the brief silhouette. She felt the cold draught of the duvet lifting. She heard his nervous breathing.

And as the shape in the bed turned to face her in the half light, she recognized the face that she knew so well, the face she had missed.

Her hand lifted. Seeking. Fingers skimming over the smooth, shaven chin.

"It felt like the right time," he whispered.

She cupped his soft, naked face, treasuring the thing she so needed, so wanted.

And finally the moment had come.

They leant towards each other, relishing with infinite patience, the closure of the gap and the anticipation of what was to come. Lips reached lips, tender, loving, awash with history and so much promise.

This time as his breathing increased it was not from fear, nor panic but from passion and need.

"I'm sorry, " he whispered into her mouth.

The only reply she gave was to move closer, press his lips tighter and let him know how little all that mattered.

His arms surrounded her, pinned her to him, as though afraid he could never hold her again.

Her hand slipped from his face, across his back, instinctively knowing where to avoid and where to be gentle, it reached his hips and enticing new territories.

"Ruth," he whispered, between kisses as he discovered her skin, her arms, her ribs, her chest.

She wanted him more than anything, anyone she had ever wanted before.

It all came down to this.

His legs wound around hers, interlocked. His fingers moving to encircle her nipple.

Her hand reached lower, in search of the hardness she desired. She found it, palm against him , fingers stroking the soft sack below.

Harry lashed out.

His right fist cutting upwards against her chin, the nails of his left hand biting into her wrist, tight and unforgiving as he threw his weight onto her.

"Harry," she breathed, the air sparse in her lungs.

His eyes were wild and angry.

His mind and memory filled with electricity and pulses and pain; shock and shame.

Suddenly the memories were gone and it was her lying beneath him, her that was hurt and shocked.

He leapt away from her, as though jolted again. Swinging his legs out of the bed, he sat, head in hands.

"Dear god, Harry," he heard her say, "what did they do to you?"

And then she was there, sitting beside him, a warm, gentle hand on his back, rubbing, easing, soothing.

And the tears began.

Not hers, but his.

They could not, would not, stop as she took him into her arms, wrapped him close and told him it was time to let it all go.


	14. Chapter 14

He pulled slowly back from her, knuckles smearing away his tears.

Her thumb was still rubbing soothing circles on his back.

For the past several minutes he had said nothing, merely letting the emotion overwhelm him.

Now it was time to face her.

But when he looked up at the woman filled with love, all he saw was the angry red mark on her jaw.

He had done this.

The victim had become the aggressor.

He began to shake his head. She could see the self loathing in his eyes.

"You didn't mean it. It doesn't matter," she assured him, but he didn't want assurance.

"I'll go tomorrow," he said sharply.

"What?"

He stood up.

"But what if I don't want you to go?" she asked resolutely.

He walked away, "It doesn't matter."

The door closed.

She bit her bottom lip.

It mattered to her.

He lay in the spare room in the darkness. He had made progress. But obviously not enough. He wouldn't hurt her again and if that meant not being here, the place that felt more like a home to him than any he had known, then so be it.

In the morning he would go back to London.

Alone.

* * *

The sun was bright, trying to burn its way into the room.

Harry woke.

He was not alone.

In a chair in the corner sat Ruth, a blanket pulled around her.

"Talk to me, Harry. You have to talk to me and then if you still want to leave that's fine."

He gave her no answer, but lay back in the bed and glared at the ceiling.

"Disassociate yourself, you know the routine," she said calmly, "tell me what happened to Harry Pierce."

He stared harder and harder, the white ceiling becoming his screen and soon the images followed and he described them to Ruth.

He spent two hours telling her what he saw above him, what had been done to the man in the pictures, the weeks of torture endured.

He told her it was the thought of her that helped him rise above the pain. He told her of his lack of desire to survive. He told her what he had revealed to his captors. He told her all of the things that brought him shame.

He told her all.

When he had finished they remained in silence; he still peering at the now empty screen above; her wiping the tears from her face.

She stood up, the blanket still gathered around her shoulders and crossed to him. She climbed onto the bed and draped an arm across his chest, wrapping them both in the blanket's enveloping warmth, her head resting against his shoulder.

"I have to go and see the Home Secretary," she said eventually.

She could feel his small nod of understanding.

"I'd like it very much if you were still here when I got back." she glanced up to him.

His eyes were still lost to her.

Gently her fingers traced his face, her lips placing a featherlite kiss on his cheek.

And then she got up.

She took a taxi to the station, leaving the car in front of the house.

It was an act of faith.

He got up. Had a cup of coffee. And then he drove away.


	15. Chapter 15

**Shortish one to keep you going for a bit!**

* * *

Ruth opened the door and walked into the Home Secretary's office.

Towers smiled warmly; he had missed her.

"Ruth, how are you?"

"I'm fine."

He gestured for her to sit, taking a bite out of a large, half eaten pastry.

"Thank god, you're back," he mumbled, mouth full, "That could have been a very dangerous, and rather costly situation with the Columbians, if it hadn't been for you. A hell of an assessment, even if you were working from the back of beyond."

"I wouldn't exactly call Suffolk the back of beyond," she smiled.

He raised his eyebrows.

"So, Ruth, to business."

He steepled his hands before him thoughtfully, flicking off an errant crumb.

"Have you debriefed him?"

"Yes."

"And what 's the damage?"

"To Harry, or to national security?" she asked pointedly.

"To both."

"He's damaged. National security, however, is intact."

There was an audible sigh of relief.

"That's fortunate," he said.

"No, what's fortunate is that they chose not to threaten him with anything he held dear; merely his life. He was interrogated for three months, bartered from one section to another, each intensifying their methods. The things he suffered I can't begin to tell you," she nodded towards the pastry, "it wouldn't be very conducive to finishing your lunch."

Towers looked somewhat abashed.

"In all that time he gave up two secrets. Both abandoned missions. I've checked and neither could damage any current agents."

Towers nodded approvingly.

"That's good," he murmured, "very good."

"His captors knew he had nearly thirty years worth of knowledge. Thirty years of covert intelligence. They wanted it and would do anything to get it. His value was judged immeasurable."

Her expression hardened.

"But what did we do? Deemed him no longer relevant. Disgarded him and all he knew, blotted it out as though it no longer mattered."

"I agree, Ruth, his decommissioning was not a fair situation, however…"

She bridled with anger.

"Did he go though all that, to be set aside as though he was worth nothing?"

She stood up.

"Ruth, please…"

She was rifling through her bag, unable to find something. He wondered if she might cry; he still couldn't read this strange, incredible woman.

She found what she was looking for. She was far from tears.

"You need to look at this," she said placing down an official document, with a series of handwritten notes alongside.

"And this…" a second appeared.

"And this." A third.

He picked them up, puzzled.

"The Columbians?" she reminded him, "That 'dangerous situation'? It wasn't assessed and flagged by me. The intel was Harry's. It was he who rescued you."

She pointed at the papers.

"Each one of those vital interventions was because of his knowledge, his experience."

She closed her bag.

"And that, Home Secretary, is called shamefully wasting and burning an asset."

And before he had time to respond Ruth was closing the door behind her.


	16. Chapter 16

The taxi wound it's way from the station, taking far too long, doing nothing to appease the anxiety of its passenger.

"Please be there. Please be there," she murmured.

"Sorry, love?" queried the driver.

"I said, here's fine, thanks."

She got out and walked down the alleyway towards the white gate. She dare not contemplate how she would feel had he gone.

She opened the door.

"Harry…?" she called, walking through the house.

There was only silence.

"Harry…" her voice was on the verge of cracking.

"Hi," he said softly, stepping from the dining room.

The adrenalin surged through her as though she had been stabbed with it.

"I found your note … in the car," he said and his hand subconsciously rested on the pocket where it was tightly folded in his wallet, always there to remind him of reality.

"It did the trick, then?" she said gently, "one way or the other?"

He nodded, "It did."

He had sat in the car, determined to go. But the simplicity of her words had left him recognising all that actually mattered, and it was all suddenly so very straightforward.

_Harry, if you're leaving, then I've failed to help you, and for that I am truly sorry. _

_Please know that I'm here, if ever you need me. Whenever you need me. I promise you that l will always be here waiting... for you._

_And if you're not leaving, then as you're in the car, could you nip to the supermarket because we're out of bread and milk._

_Ruth x_

He took a step towards her, tentative at first and then more confident. He stood in front of her, close enough so she could feel the heat of him.

"How's Towers?" he asked, his eyes fixed on her.

"Oh, bugger Towers," she said, gazing at him.

He smiled, reaching for her hand, caressing her fingers.

And then he walked away, dragging her with him.

"Come on."

Through the kitchen and down the corridor towards the stairs.

And into the lounge.

"What do you think?" he asked, watching her intently.

She gazed at the wall, speechless.

"It was the colour you picked out, or at least the closest to it I could find."

"It's teal," she said.

"Yes, so… do you like it?" He looked at the section of wall above the fireplace, still glistening with wet patches of paint.

"Yes, Harry, I do. In fact, I love it."

She dug her nails into her hand; there had been enough tears.

"Good," he said smiling broadly, "so do I."

In that moment she was overwhelmed, overwhelmed with the strength of her feelings for him but before she could tell him she was once more being dragged through the house.

"I've made dinner. Don't expect too much and you won't be disappointed."

"You've made dinner?"

"Yes, I've made dinner. I am capable you know."

She smiled as he pulled out a chair for her to sit and then picked up a bottle.

"And yes, I know I'm on medication, but I'm having a glass of red, so say nothing."

* * *

The food was enjoyed, the company was relished and the time evaporated. They talked of nothing important, just life and each other.

That night, for the first time, it was Harry who locked up the house and then followed Ruth to bed.

He climbed between the cool sheets but didn't turn the sidelight off. He wanted to see her.

Lying on their sides, they faced each other.

And, in the silence, all they did was look.

Pupils dilated, bound in an intense piercing gaze.

For minute after minute after minute.

It was the loudest, most deafening declaration of love that ever went unspoken.

They both heard it. They both felt it.

The overwhelming sensation of being home.

The smiles were spilling from their eyes to twitch at the corners of their lips. It was uncontrollable, overpowering, thrilling and yet so wonderfully familiar.

Under the covers his hand reached out for hers and met in the middle of the bed. Their fingers danced and discovered each other, winding, twisting, courting. His ran over the back of hers, lacing their fingers and then he guided it towards him.

Her face reacted with surprise as her palm suddenly found itself placed over his groin.

His eyes were alight with mischief.

"Just thought we should get it out of the way. Didn't want you wondering if I was likely to punch you again."

She laughed. mischief spreading, as her fingers began to explore.

"Not yet," he said, this time pulling her hand away, "I've got too much I want to do to you first."

And at last the final divide between them was crossed.

* * *

**Possibly one more chapter/epilogue. Not decided yet.**


	17. Chapter 17

Ruth opened the door.

"Oh!"

Suddenly she was rather flustered.

A moment before she had barely entertained any sense of unease about answering the door wearing only Harry's shirt.

But standing in front of the Home Secretary she felt considerably different.

She partially shut the door and grabbed the nearest thing to her; her coat.

She reopened the door, wrapping it quickly around her.

"Good morning," said a smiling, and rather appreciative Towers.

"Sorry," she mumbled, almost incomprehensively, "Come in."

He stepped past her, into the hallway and on towards the kitchen. A moment later, when he was ushered into the dining room, he discovered not only a wonderful view of the garden bathed in the morning sunshine, but also a dressing gown clad Harry, feet up on a nearby chair, looking for all the world like he belonged here.

"Harry…" prompted Ruth.

He looked up; seamlessly masking his surprise at the Home Secretary standing before him.

"Good to see you, Harry," Towers said warmly, "You look ….well."

Harry stood, and though he didn't physically glance at Ruth, somehow his attention was on her as much as his former boss.

"I am, thank you."

Ruth offered tea but was refused. For a moment the three stood awkwardly.

"Do you want me back to -?" began Ruth before she was interrupted.

"It's Harry I've come to see."

"Oh," she said.

"Must be awfully dull down here, in the back of beyond?"

"I wouldn't say that," smiled Harry.

"It's not the back of beyond," muttered Ruth.

"Thought you might like a little something to do," Towers continued, ignoring them both.

"I'm retired," said Harry, this time a little more pointedly.

"Only from Five," came the enigmatic reply, "There are those of us who recognize the importance of experience," he glanced at Ruth. " Not to mention that there may be some jobs that are a little too …'dirty' to involve by Security Advisor."

"But not too dirty for me?"

"I doubt that," he held out his hand, "So what do you say, Harry?"

The two men studied each other for a moment and then Harry responded, taking his hand, shaking it firmly.

"Though I need to make one thing clear," added Towers, quickly, "Ruth would be the one in charge, you'd have to work under her. Can you manage that, Harry?"

Three expressions remained intact.

"Yes, Home Secretary, I believe I can."

Towers nodded.

"Good. Good. Then I'll be off. Things to do, babies to kiss."

He turned away, followed by Ruth.

As she showed him out of the front door, he turned back to her briefly.

"By the way, Ruth… his shirt looks much better on you."

And with that the door closed.

With a beaming, satisfied smile Ruth returned to the dining room.

Harry was stood by the window, looking out at the garden.

She couldn't see his face but she knew he was smiling; could feel it, could hear it in his voice.

"So boss… where do you want me?"

* * *

**And therein lies the end! Hope it will suffice.**


End file.
